


A potter’s field

by dana_norram



Series: it is not enough to say (love) [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Introspection, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram
Summary: It does not hurt, not really.It’s deep and it’s crushing in a way Nicolò has never experienced before, but it does not hurt.Yusuf is not gentle. He cannot be, not so soon.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: it is not enough to say (love) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045098
Comments: 73
Kudos: 509





	A potter’s field

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karanoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanoid/gifts).



> This is for Kara and the lovely safe space she helped to create.
> 
> A very special shout-out to [fedorah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorah/pseuds/fedorah), my dear friend and amazing beta-reader. Thank you for always having my back, bb!

Nicolò does not cry out when Yusuf enters him for the first time.  
  
He muffles a whimper against the inside of his arm, presses his forehead on the straw mattress, and he does not cry out. He realises he’s holding his breath, teeth clenched and face twisted, so he wills himself to relax. He spreads his legs further apart, whole body shaking against Yusuf’s thrusts, eased by the oil he coated his cock with.  
  
It does not hurt, not really.  
  
It’s deep and it’s crushing in a way Nicolò has never experienced before, but it does not hurt.  
  
Yusuf is not gentle. He cannot be, not so soon.  
  
Not when they can still smell each other’s blood on their blades even after several scrubbings. Not when they are still encountering burning villages on the road, black smoke rising up to the skies like an offering to a pagan god. Nicolò does not entertain the possibility of forgiveness, not yet. Not when he still dreams of the screams coming from within Jerusalem’s crumbling walls. Not when he can still remember the lines of dry tears marking up Yusuf’s face, as he stared back to the Holy City in flames. It’s all too late, too soon.  
  
So Yusuf is not gentle, no, but he isn’t cruel either.  
  
Nicolò knew he never had it in him. He knew it in the moment Yusuf laid his blade down first, when he extended his hand in truce. He knew it when Yusuf didn’t abandon him in the desert to starve and be killed, maybe this time for good. He knew it when Yusuf bartered one of his beautiful rings so Nicolò could have a new, clean tunic. He knew it when Yusuf got a room so they could have some privacy to wash the sand and blood off their bodies, if not off their minds.  
  
Yusuf didn’t comment when Nicolò asked for help to shave, after they had settled for the evening. He didn’t ask why, so Nicolò didn’t have to stumble over foreign words to explain how he still could smell blood in his own beard. He didn’t have to explain how he wanted, no, _how he needed_ to look like somebody else. Like the priest who never left the monastery on the outskirts of Genoa. Like the man whose greatest sin was to touch himself in the dead of the night, instead of praying for his immoral desires to go away.  
  
Yusuf moans something in his language and Nicolò’s entire body shudders from the mere music of it. Yusuf’s fingers pressing hard on his hips, bruises fading away too fast to matter, the wet slaps of skin against skin loud and heavy in the small room. Nicolò meets him halfway, pushing back against his cock, knees sinking into their bedding, legs trembling under Yusuf’s weight. He half-curses, half-pleads when Yusuf rubs something hidden, deep inside of him, and he desperately wants to touch himself, but he’s shaking too badly to even move his arms. He knows he will fall if he tries.  
  
So he lifts his head, tries to remember the words Yusuf taught him. The ones he should use when asking for something, but his mind is blank, his chest on fire and when Nicolò opens his mouth, short and shallow breaths are punched out of him, and he groans out loud. Loud enough for Yusuf to plaster a firm hand over his lips, a rushed warning against his ears, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, uneven. Yusuf’s hand is warm and big enough to cover his chin, his calloused fingers rough against Nicolò’s freshly shaven face.  
  
Yusuf wasn’t gentle, nor cruel, earlier, when he held the borrowed razorblade against his throat. It would have been quick, if he had tried to end him just one more time, but he never did. Maybe he just didn’t want to ruin his brand new tunic, maybe he didn’t want to explain the mess to the innkeeper. Maybe he was just curious, and that’s why he ran a hand over the line of Nicolò’s chin and brushed a thumb against his mole after he finished. Nicolò lifted his eyes at his touch, but he didn’t move otherwise, and soon Yusuf let go off him.  
  
Later that night, though, when Yusuf began to undress, he must have recognised the unchecked desire on Nicolò’s eyes, because he didn’t utter a word before he closed the small distance between them and pressed him against the bed. Nicolò didn’t try to fight him, not since that first time Yusuf had offered him his hand.  
  
He tastes the salt on Yusuf’s fingers when he pushes two of them inside his mouth. At first, Nicolò thinks he’s trying to keep him quiet still, but as he begins to rub his fingers against his tongue, getting them wet, he feels warm in his belly and he understands. Soon, Yusuf’s hand is firm around his cock, stroking him in the same rhythm as his thrusts and Nicolò fights against a litany of words he knows shouldn’t ever leave his mind, let alone touch his tongue.  
  
He can’t prevent a final cry when he finally comes, body taut like a bowstring as Yusuf works him through his bliss, his thrusts becoming deep, erratic and almost painful as he soon follows, and empties himself inside.  
  
At first, Nicolò doesn’t notice he has let his head fall back over his arms. He feels warm and tender all over, but the light soreness of his body fades away almost immediately and he’s deeply grateful for the hot, sticky mess Yusuf made inside of him. That feeling will last a little longer, he hopes, he prays.  
  
He’s tired, but he can’t help a smile when he feels Yusuf’s coarse beard tingling against his back, soon followed by a pair of warm lips mouthing his neck as an afterthought. It’s not a kiss, not yet.  
  
It’s too soon, Nicolò knows.  
  
It’s a good thing, he thinks, that they have time.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first TOG fic and I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. I’m thinking about writing something from Yusuf’s POV in this scenario, ~~so let me know if that’s something you would like to see!~~ and I guess [I did it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27929224).
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](http://negotiumcrucis.tumblr.com/). Come say hi?
> 
> For the curious ones: a [potter’s field ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potter%27s_field) (also called paupers’ grave) is a place for the burial of unclaimed or indigent people. It has a biblical origin (Matthew 27:3-27:8), referring to a field outside of Jerusalem that was bought with Judas Iscariot’s thirty pieces of silver and then used “for the burial of strangers, criminals, and the poor”. I found it eerie and fitting.


End file.
